Rigor Mortis
by CalliopesCreature
Summary: See, at first everything was simple. Fresh and unlined, a pure piece of paper outlaid like prey to the dripping tip of a writer's pen. A story untold. But to be honest, starts often are. Simple. And when they're not simple anymore that's where the end usually sets in. - I feared the end more than most. Scridder/Riddlecrow, Jonathan Crane x Edward Nygma. Set in the Arkham Games.
See, at first everything was simple. Fresh and unlined, a pure piece of paper outlaid like prey to the dripping tip of a writer's pen. A story untold.

But to be honest, starts often are. Simple. And when they're not simple anymore that's where the end usually sets in.

Our start was not special as I recall. Maybe the circumstances were when we met, but beside that it was quite average. Yet I felt… a spark, a rush, similar to this small jolt experienced by touching a loaded cable. You were incurious. Tall. Silent. Intelligent. I was mesmerized. As we parted ways I guessed with a snarl in my chest we'd meet again. And we did, didn't we? Many, many times. It took years till we stuck though. Work had different meaning after. How did it begin to get complicated? You killed a man who put his hands on me when we walked out of the bar, filling his blood with toxin till his veins burst open. I finished a crossword as I heard his pleas echo in the basement. You called him more pig than guinea when you were done. Said the results would be helpful. I smiled at that.

It was your smile in return, the smile of a beast that damned me. The gates of heaven wouldn't have opened for me anyway - I was sure they didn't exist.

Months ticked away. Seasons changed. We talked, we walked, we marveled and argued about everything and nothing. We were clueless about the things that were yet to come, like children playing with fire of different colour. Still, we didn't know each other. Not in particular. You didn't know my true self, the fog on the mirror. I didn't want you to. I hid in my numerous layers for I didn't want this to end too quickly. It would have been cruel, a newborn thrown into a well. Not that I hadn't thought of such actions before – in the metaphorical sense at least, a riddle to go – but there was something about you I couldn't shake off. The spark, the rush, the small jolt had turned into an outrageous being captivating my core. I named you a challenge once. I so dearly meant it.

As life went by we learned, figured out what we preferred and despised, what wounded us and what had proven to heal as the world seemed red. Interest turned to confidence and slowly we felt comfortable around each other though I might have felt it sooner than you. I often do. Then we made it a habit to be known, spirit and skin in equal measure. But it didn't mean you knew me though you said otherwise. It was good that way.

Then as time flew - it always does - we gathered shovels in our hands and dug deeper into the hardened ground we call soul. The shovel's iron cut sharp and hasty and soon enough you forgot to realize the hurt you caused me. Losing the dignity, the carefulness we had begun with (if we had some left), taking off the gloves to redden skin in firmer places, release the animal of mind. But I wasn't any better; I was worse. I came and climbed and buried myself inside you like a cocoon, you bit and scratched my surface to mark it, recognize it and I welcomed your attempt. My bold intention to learn about your darkest corners, your contemplation and disgrace, it needed me to. No one likes that part. I was aware but couldn't help myself. And so couldn't you as the iron crushed the outline of my bones and scattered tiny scars over them as others had and would. Later I said it to be my fault, all mine with breath cracking in bruised lungs. And you didn't disagree. You looked through my eyes like glass while bandaging me. For you deemed yourself right.

You're always right, aren't you?

How funny this sounds from a man who pledges himself to be the sole genius of this city. And maybe that's why I keep standing by your side though you look the other way. You carry an irony inside you which I'd never forgive myself. A truth, a despair I love to deny.

Yes, maybe you knew me then. A bit you knew. How terrible, it was far too much.

I'm vulnerable.

See, I vowed I'd never be here again. Be this person to look at the phone. The person to hear his pulse beat faster as keys are fumbled for and doors open slightly, grime-stained boots stepping in, rustling cloth rubbing my nerves. The person to pretend his sleep, keeping lids sewed no matter what for you shall not take a glimpse on my weakness. My damned rigor mortis.

I remember a night. The dark was cool on me. Scents of ash and acid lingered in borrowed air as the mattress sank with your weight. Calculating hands that pulled the sheets apart, arms coiling around me in outdated fervor. I couldn't help but shake and I knew that you knew I was awake. Hell, who am I kidding? You had known since you crossed the threshold. My impatience was the only itch you allowed beside your syringe. I sensed presence and body next to mine, how dry lips embedded in the back of my neck, teasingly seating themselves in a position we had grown fond of. Like parts of the same clockwork clicking into place an emptiness between us was filled. I can't say I fainted, but it felt that way. So quickly I fell in slumber I almost missed the hunch of your smile against my skin as I sighed.

I should have gone then. It was a moment of closure and I should have taken the opportunity. But I wasted it and I wasted the next, I did it on purpose. I was greedy. I vowed so many times to go, I have a number but it's too shameful to say it out loud.

I yelled at you in the morning, this I say though not proudly. In a rage, trembling, tearing at my hair, veins blue and thick under the papery cloak of my temples. I loved myself. I loathed myself. I was a blizzard in July. You listened while I cried with this petrified expression of a professor. I hated it too and told you so without thinking twice, words rolling from my mouth like bullets shooting holes in your facade. You stood and listened and then you left and I broke down, even angrier than before for I wanted to be the one leaving, not you. Not always you oh father. Then I was grateful for my quivering legs wouldn't have carried me any longer at that point and the shame took over. I crawled to bed and hid my blurred world in the pillows. I was a mess. But I wasn't for long, I picked up the pieces before. I mend myself. I cure the disease that is me.

It took me hours to get up, a cold shower to clear my thoughts, a hot drink to soothe the mood.

Now you know me. I thought, the second chair on the table leaning there in unspoken accusation, the chocolate bitter in my mouth. And I'm sorry that you do. For it means I will stay and you won't come back.

But you came back, didn't you? As the evening sun bled out on the rooftops you came and I asked if you'd kill me, voice almost stern enough to be taken serious, shoulders tense. I wasn't prepared to defend myself for such particular reason but I needed to ask. I needed to know if I had seen more than Scarecrow's second mask or if I was the fool all along.

You stayed. I don't know why but you did. You had other places to go, a life to be led without me. All the things I said… you stayed. Why? I still wonder. Your arms wrapped me when I needed them to. Your lips were where they had chosen to be. Your voice hummed in my ear as shadows crept on the walls.

Why? _Don't you know me?_

 _Yes_ , you said while your fingertips drew wary lines on my back and I lay still, awaiting every pulse and touch with a mixture of emotion. _But you know me too._

Realization dawned on me.

We were alone so long, weren't we? More than a man can take. Even more than a Scarecrow might bear, surrounded by no one but crows and fields of own imagination. _How long?_ No answer. I reached for fingers, your face, anything. Warm breath ghosted over my forehead. _Long enough._ It was the only answer I would get. So I stopped asking.

I was not made for long relationships, I thought. Or relationships in general. Never been. I got too complicated. I craved for things which weren't there and planted my expectations on people who'd never fulfill them. It was the pattern I got used to, the structure I'd come to memorize. The rhythm of disappointment is more akin to waltz than tango, I told you that morning. Yet we used to dance often. Turned and tripped and clung to each other and fell on the concrete all the same. Your hand guiding mine was the white ribbon pulled tight around my wrist to stop my walk soon as the abyss sang. I thought it best to meet the choir down there but you, you refused to let go. Stubborn one. The ribbon bit into flesh, feeding on droplets of blood, bloom of rose. Your cold stare watching my every intake of breath as if it was sacred. Or perhaps you just didn't want your favourite experiment being snatched from you by death too early. You were possessive in the only way you could be.

I had never felt so happy in my life. Or akin to happiness which is already more than most have.

The dark is cool on me again tonight. But the mattress is empty.

I miss this hand. I miss you. Where are you? Not here. But you were all those times. If you hadn't been, say, would I care?

You said you'd come back. Said neither sea nor wind could part us long. The Asylum. Arkham. I called the island a devil's eye in salt when you went. I said the Joker is not to be trusted, I said _stay._ You nodded. Looked at me with those hard eyes slowly melting into something else, something… softer. A harsh kiss on my wondrous mouth, too short, too long, too desperate.

You went nonetheless.

And how could I not believe you? Even as your screams filled my ears I believed. I believed when the crocodile growled, I believed the siren sound of the Batarang shedding its cry as it hit the collar. The brute splash of bodies swallowed by water, an ugly scene. And then, nothing. My head hurt that day, the mockery of silence scratching my skull. I did not fight back as the police broke into our home. I had to think. Think of you, your eyes. Of what went wrong.

 _No body was found_ they whispered as I sprayed question marks on the walls of my cell. Waylon had the taste of blood but not your brain. The paint crumbled on my fingers while I sat and peered. Harvey hit me once to trickle life back into my form. My jaw felt numb and I tasted metal smearing my lips. Yours tasted different. Pain? I couldn't have cared less. Joker would have loved the makeup though.

I believed the rumors for I had nothing to refute them. I broke out of prison and waited. I waited. For what? A sign. A puzzle to solve. A you. But you were never one for puzzles, were you? The only puzzle you ever played with was I and I liked the way you did.

I lived in rigor mortis before I met you. I lived in rigor mortis again when you left.

Old habits die hard, see? But then.

You returned like a phoenix from ash. I had a foreboding you would but who were you? Who had you been all this time while you drowned in the Lethe? A distorted version of a man. This brace, burned straw, more burlap than flesh. Your face told me nothing but your soulless gaze did as it avoided me at our meeting. A ruin on legs you were but you were mine, I thought you were mine still. I thought too much.

You wanted to talk to me. Alone. I shut the door and said Jonathan. No reaction. I said Scarecrow. Scarecrow. Your head turned. A questioning look on me, piercing through. There was a sting in my chest.

I asked _Do you know me?_

Waiting in agony. Seconds of suspense. Threads pulled tight as teeth showed. The smile of the beast greeted me. _Of course, Edward. Say, do you still sleep on the right side of the bed? Awaiting me?_

I had no smile left. But I had to leave for I didn't know you. I didn't want to know you at all, I forbid myself. What beautiful lies we contemplate in our misery.

I couldn't pick up the pieces this time. I couldn't mend myself. I couldn't cure the disease for the disease was you. And you refused to be cured, my friend. You were not aware. Lost. Your ribbon had turned black.

There was a time you knew me. I knew you. We were vulnerable. We never dared to be, right? Right?

A plan was set in motion. Everything for the bat. You needed my help. Requested it. Why didn't I refuse? My restless hate for the caped crusader. Revenge? I remembered your screams in the Asylum. What you had turned into. Let it be revenge then. Let it be bloodlust. The riddle of a war.

I built my robots to serve the distraction. Militia everywhere. We succeeded first as our kind was prone to.

You stroked my arm absently when we stood too close on the handrail, basking in the afterglow of terror. No cognition. Old habits. A twitch of a dead body. I took what I could get, still too greedy for my own sake. My place was by your side.

Time is a horrible thing, merciless and unforgiving in its passing. The war we lost and the riot the city put up against us. Batman is the city. Batman is Gotham's son and what are we? Her abortions champing on her rotten brick walls, yearning for a warmth we'd never get inside them. We should have known better. We never do.

You're nudged in a corner now, hands clasped over your head, uncontrollably shaking back and forth. The other rogues don't even share a gleeful glance, directing eyes and thoughts elsewhere, slipping though rusty bars tattooing our flesh. I don't. You're my direction. Well… you were. You are. Damn me.

I wished I could convince myself to leave this to an end. Cut it out like a tumor but it would be too easy. You stayed. You stayed. I still don't know why you did. I will never know why you left me.

Look what we have become.

We're magnets, you and I, too broken to function, too functioning to die. I come to you, kneeling down beside. No thought, just act. It's natural. Jonathan?

You take no notion of my presence and I don't need you to. I grab you by the shoulders and you fall limp between my hands. How gaunt you are, standing so tall while a sharp wind could have swept you away.

You can't stand here. You don't have to.

I cradle your shuddering head in my lap. You lash out, unfocused panic feeding on you, feckless prattle, curses. I take it, no complaints. I'm used to this, it's fine. Batman had his share already. Penguin snorts. To hell with him. To hell with them all though oh, we already are. Hades himself has brought us here. Saves a ride I guess.

 _The bats the bats_ you mumble, voice hoarse from past whimpers. Fright in the mist midst of your milky eye, limbs meek and hungry below your clothes. Your skin is stained with sweat under that mask, vials of toxin dusty and blank. I pull the hood down a little, placing my palm against your cheek - yes, it used to be a cheek. You don't see me, other eye rotating in its hole, pupil wide and feasted on ache.

 _The bats won't get you, Jon. Not as long as I'm here_ , I promise. What are promises worth these days anyway? I've never been wealthy enough to tell. But sometimes promises are all we have. Then again, you promised you'd come back and haven't. Not all of you. You're the worst example.

I ask myself if it was Scarecrow who took you away from me. Or the crocodile, Joker, everybody. And then no, no it was the bat. Scarecrow was your protection when he failed to save you. When I failed…I failed. Have I failed you?

 _Jon_ I say quietly, _I can start a war or end one, I can give you the strength of heroes or leave you powerless, I might be snared with a glance, but no force can compel me to stay; What am I?_

 _The bats the bats take THEM OFF. PLEASE_ you croak and we both know that's not the right answer. I should think of more bat riddles then. I laugh a little. My sight clouds with tears. Why do you always leave me with a blur? You're cruel. Or am I? _What am I?_

Muffled noise and wetness grazing my thumb. You're crying. A child in the dark. I lean back against the bars, pulling you with me. I move you so that your ear lies on my chest. Perhaps the rhythm of my breath has a calming effect. I hope but not too much. You shake and shake. The bats the bats. My grip tightens as men keep staring. I can't defend you, but at least I can shield. There are so many things I should have done - this is one of them. This is one.

As a tear runs down and falls onto my collarbone I understand it won't stay one. It can't be.

Finally, rigor mortis sets in. This time for the both of us. The world keeps spinning, unaffected. It always does.

See, at first everything was simple. Fresh and unlined, a pure piece of paper, outlaid like prey to the dripping tip of a writer's pen.

But to be honest, starts often are. Simple. And when they're not simple anymore that's where the end usually sets in.

I feared the end more than most. And hey, who knows?

Maybe that's why you kissed me that day. Held me so close I felt your heart beat into mine. Hid your face in my hair and breathed in as if you'd dive for eternity.

...

...

Yes.

Maybe you feared it too.


End file.
